


When the Pale Swan Cries

by EldritchMage



Category: Bard/Thranduil if you shut one eye and cross the other, Barduil if you shut one eye and cross the other, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M, damaged Bard, more damaged Thran, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 02:43:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11004318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EldritchMage/pseuds/EldritchMage
Summary: I haven't written any angst in a long time, so here's a dark tale of a white-haired Swan in a cage, and a lonely man who goes into a bar to watch a hockey game. It's one more example of how no good deed goes unpunished.





	When the Pale Swan Cries

**Author's Note:**

> Translation Notes:
> 
> krasavitsa = beautiful (Russian)

“He’s back.”

Swan ignored Dove as he continued to redo his makeup. Dark eyeliner, smudged, smoky grey shadow, silver highlights, faintest pink on his high cheekbones, nude lipstick. Red lipstick on the top lip, then just in the center of the lower one.

“Did you hear me? He’s back.”

Swan kept his eyes on the mirror. So many coats of non-run mascara were hard to get just right in any case; trying to do so when only three of the mirror’s eight light bulbs still worked was next to impossible.

Dove smacked his shoulder. “He’s back, stupid. Really.”

“Cut it out. This is fucking hard enough to do without you making it harder. I put my eye out, and then where will you be? Taking all my shifts, that’s where.”

Dove relented, but plunked herself down in the chair beside Swan to give him an exasperated sigh. “You better not put out your eye. Neeson will be pissed as hell, and then all the rest of us will suffer until he calms down again.”

“So show some respect.”

Dove snorted. “Respect? Here? What are you smoking?”

Swan snorted in return. “Not nearly enough of anything.”

“Maybe you ought to. It’d do you less harm than the booze.”

“Now you’re going to tell me to stop drinking?”

“You’re bitchy today, sugar.”

“Give me a reason not to be.”

“I just did. He’s back.”

Swan sat back with a sigh, and finally met Dove’s brown eyes. She was all fuchsia and magenta from ostrich feathers in her hair to corset to fishnets to stilettos, even magenta streaks in her black hair, and her ebony skin glistened with golden glitter. She was curvy and abundant, much stronger than she looked – she had to be, to pull off the acrobatic moves she did eight times a night. Onstage, she was as haughty as the Queen of Sheba, but back here, with only Swan to see, her eyes were alight with interest. Of course they were. She’d talked of nothing else for the past month, so Swan didn’t have to ask who “he” was. But he did anyway.

“Who’s back?”

“Oh, for gods’ sake, Swan! That guy at the bar! The one –”

“Who watches the hockey games,” Swan finished tiredly. “The one who looks like an angel, who never watches or speaks to any of us, who nurses a single glass of Jack Daniels over ice until the game is over and then leaves.”

“Oh, so you noticed him, too?” Dove teased.

“I did not. I try to notice as few people here as possible.”

“Don’t let Neeson hear you say that.”

“I don’t care whether he hears me or not. I hate him as much as he hates me. Too bad he’s addicted to how much money I bring in, or he’d fire me.”

Dove’s smile faded. “You’re in a mood today.”

“Why shouldn’t I be? I know exactly what I am, and where I am.”

Dove winced. “At least you’re just onstage tonight. You don’t have to work the floor.”

“Good. My knees are still bruised from last night.”

“Roy again?”

Swan winced.

“He’s a fucking pig.”

“He is, indeed. But he’s a well-paying, fucking pig. That's why Neeson loves him.”

Dove shrugged a concession. “Hawk’s on now. He’s just about done, so get yourself ready while I take my turn, sugar.”

A small smile touched the corners of Swan’s painted lips. “How you can offer a kind word to me is a wonder, _krasavitsa_.”

“Easy,” Dove waved a hand in casual dismissal. “You’re one of us. Fuck the rest.”

“We do. All of us.”

Dove’s smile faded as she patted Swan’s shoulder. “Then how about you’re one of us, and don’t care about the rest?”

“Wise advice.” Swan caught Dove’s hand and brushed a kiss against the back of it. “The rest don’t care about us to begin with, anyway.”

Dove’s dimples were sweet, no matter what the rest of her looked like. “See you in a bit.”

The woman slipped out of the dressing room, leaving Swan to check his makeup for the final time. Yes, it was fine. He brushed out straight, white hair that fell to his waist in silky waves, pulling back just a few strands at his temples to pin at the back of his head. Having his hair in his eyes didn’t matter when he danced, in fact, it made him seem sultrier, but it also made it hard for him to dodge the gropers when he went on and off the stage. He pulled white boots over white fishnets – leather, stiletto-heeled things that came to his thighs – and fastened them to the garter belt. They were hell to walk in, but they covered his bruised knees, and the heels were useful to make an impression on patrons who hadn’t paid for the privilege to touch him. He cinched the white leather G-string tighter – he’d caught hell once when an entitled patron had yanked it down enough to expose more than even Neeson wanted to flash in the main room – leaving it just loose enough to accommodate patrons who wanted to slip their money into it. On went the white leather bralette that kept his skin from sticking to the pole, or bruising, or ripping – it also kept Neeson from urging him to have his nipples pierced yet again.

Hawk came in, reeking of sweat and spilled beer. Someone had decided that Neeson’s expensive swill looked better splattered across an Asian boy’s naked torso than it tasted going down his throat. Swan tossed him a towel, then continued his bends and stretches so he stayed supple before he danced. The last thing he needed was an injury to blacken his mood still further.

“That bunch of frat rats is still on the far side of the stage. Rowdy.”

Swan leaned over into a backbend.

“They tossed a couple of beers. I told Karsten to mop it up, but fuck knows if he will. Don’t slip.”

“I’ll watch out.”

Dove’s music came to an end. For the fifth time tonight, Swan slipped on the diaphanous, floor length kimono that veiled him only in men’s dreams. For the fifth time tonight, he steeled himself for the deluge as he slipped out into the main room. Gods, the horde had grown, even for a Saturday. The frat rats, a bunch of trans and gays in the back, the usual quota of pervs and sleazes who sat in the shadows, a full contingent of the predators sitting as close to the stage as they could get. Neeson sat at his usual table by the near edge of the stage with a crony or two. Six ostensible waiters and waitresses ferried drinks, but most of them stopped once their trays were empty to provide the expected lap dances. Dove was still at the edge of the stage, collecting her tips from the horde of men pressed around her. Look at them, hands lingering on Dove’s thighs as they stuffed the tops of her fishnets with bills. They weren’t supposed to touch, but Neeson looked the other way, and the cops did, too – at least two plainclothesmen were among the throng giving Dove a feel.

In ten minutes, Swan would be the focus of that throng.

He no longer noticed the slithering of his skin.

Dove finally took her leave. As the PA system boomed, Swan mouthed the familiar words, but left unsaid the truths behind the blaring introduction.

“And now, it’s the moment you’ve waited for, the moment when Birds of Paradise presents the most exotic bird in our exclusive aviary, for your most discerning pleasure...”

_Offered like raw, bleeding meat on a platter to a raft of starving vultures..._

“Straight from the exotic fjords of northern Sweden...”

_Try Moscow..._

“Nowhere else will you see such extreme acrobatic skill...

_One once could in the circuses. But they’ve died a slow death for years, including mine last year..._

“Such unrivaled strength...”

_Ten years of tumbling training and eight in circus school..._

“Such exquisite grace...”

_Five years of ballet..._

“Such rare pale beauty...”

_How many times have I been beaten up for looking this way?_

“Such untouchable allure...”

_If only..._

“Please welcome to the Birds of Paradise stage...”

_If you call a lot of beer-soaked boards a stage..._

“Our very own... Pale Swan.”

Arch the back, arms wide, sweep past the tables of clamoring men, dodge the groping hands, smile-smile-smile, up the two steps – careful on the edge of the first one that stuck up too far – hands on hips, toss the hair, the sultry stare that met no one’s eyes, dramatic arms, feline roll of the hips worthy of any catwalk model across the stage and back, let the kimono slip ever so slowly off the shoulders, the arms, let it slide free – drop it at the back of the stage tonight to avoid the beer – parade the meat once again back and forth across the stage, hands gesturing dramatically, then to the pole, and up into the upside down split, then the twirls and falls and writhing twists and backbends that raised such a racket from the audience, a racket that almost but not really sounded like the oohs and aahs he’d once garnered in the circus, then on to the part that was nothing like the circus, the grinding of hips against the pole and the humping of the stage floor – stay out of the beer – and the fake shivers of pleasure and desire and animal rutting, then the parade off the stage and between the tables, unflinching whether someone stuffed bills in his G-string or grabbed at his crotch or shouted the sex acts they wanted to do with him, then thank the gods back onto the poor stage, even if he had to strut through the beer and nearly slipped, a few more arches and rolls and contortions, a pair of back walkovers, into a split, then back onto the pole for his final lift and split.

The whistles, hoots, and applause were loud and meaningless. Even the vodka shot waiting for him in the dressing room barely registered. He still had three more performances before the night was over.

Gods knew what might come after that. Certainly not him.

The rest of the night went by in as much of a blur as Swan could make of it. When his final stint onstage was done, he harvested the bills he’d collected and added them to the stack of what he’d amassed throughout the night. It was a relief to peel off the soaked bralette – Hawk’s beer-flinging frat rats had tagged him on his last strut across the stage – and boots, then garter belt, G-string, and fishnets. He pulled on black boxers, jeans, and tee, then heavy biker boots to make the dash out of the club. He stuffed his money into his front jeans pocket, then the rest of his things into his bag –

Dove slipped into the dressing room. “Roy just came in.”

“Fucking son of a bitch,” Swan gulped. “Is he –”

Dove nodded. “Asking for you by name. He’s with Neeson, shooting the shit. Put your hair under your beanie, and skip out through the bar.”

Swan pulled his black knitted beanie out of his bag and tucked his distinctive white hair under it, then armed his way into his black jacket. “Thanks, _krasavitsa_.”

“Anytime, sugar. Later.”

Swan shouldered his bag and slid through the door, keeping low as he flitted out of the main room, around the corner, and into the bar.

Several patrons crowded the bar, but as the PA system crackled, most of them grabbed their bottles and glasses and rushed back to catch the next act. Only a single man remained, oblivious to the stir of the other patrons. A short glass half full of something sat on the bar before him, and his eyes remained focused on the television above the row of liquor bottles. Ice hockey held his attention –

Ah, of course. Dove’s enigmatic fascination.

Well-worn black leather motorcycle jacket, devoid of gang labels. Tough blue jeans, and tougher boots, scuffed from hard use. Plain blue tee, washed until faded, and tight across a lean torso. Short, dark brown, wavy hair that just covered the collar of his jacket. Heartstoppingly handsome profile, just as Dove had described in such rapt detail for the past month. Light scruff over lean cheeks, but it gave him a rakish glamor rather than a shabby one. Maybe a couple of years older than Swan, say twenty-seven or eight, with only faint traces of wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. A construction worker? Yes, the hand running one absent-minded finger along the rim of his glass was weathered. Blue eyes? Hazel?

They were hazel, and they met Swan’s long enough for Swan to register the ache in them. When the man looked away, Swan darted a look at his left hand – yes, the wedding ring was there.

Opportunity knocked.

He had a few minutes before Neeson would come looking for him, so he took a seat at the other end of the bar, pulled off his beanie, and shook his hair out. As Deacon sat down his preferred shot of vodka, Swan cut a look at the man at the other end. Yes, he’d torn the man’s attention away from his hockey game. Swan smothered a smirk – prey already hooked, without having to say a word. He sipped his vodka rather than tossing it back, pretending not to notice for another second or two. When he met the man’s eyes, he nodded.

“Wife trouble, yes?”

The man didn’t flinch, offer a denial, or look away. His smile was rueful, his shrug gentle.

“May I join you?”

The man nudged the stool beside him out with the toe of his boot. Swan slid his glass along the bar as he moved to the proffered stool. Good, very good. Even if Neeson barged in on him now, the club owner wasn’t stupid enough to interrupt him at work.

“How goes the game?”

Another gentle shrug. “It’s a rebroadcast from earlier. Islanders took it three to one, but I enjoy the game even when I know how it turns out.”

“Your wife is no hockey fan, I gather.”

The same rueful smile. “She’s not a fan of me, mostly. She just served me with divorce papers.”

Swan feigned a wince. “Harsh.”

“Not really. It was a relief, to be honest.”

“Longstanding rift, then.”

“On her part, clearly. It wasn’t my choice, but then... a lot of things haven’t been my choice for a while.”

“What happened?”

Hazel eyes closed. “I... tried to comfort her. Tell her I loved her.”

“What, is she mad, this wife of yours? To reject such a kind and handsome man?”

“She doesn’t think I’m either.”

“A tragedy. I am sorry.”

“Women are hard to figure. They say they want a sensitive guy, then when they get one, they think it means weakness, I guess, so they think...”

The man flicked a glance up at Swan’s face, held his gaze a second too long, then grimaced and looked back at his glass.

“Apologies.”

“For what? Admitting to tragedy? Welcome to being human.”

“For that... and for staring. You’re very beautiful.”

Swan had been called beautiful so many times that it no longer meant anything. But this man wasn’t about to beat him to a pulp, or force him to something disgusting, and he’d offered the term honestly.

He was an innocent.

Innocents were always easy marks.

“Thank you for saying so. I am sorry life has not been so kind to you lately.”

Another shrug. “It hasn’t been unkind as much as... empty.”

“Things have been bad for a long time, then.”

The man sipped his drink.

“Since you offered me a compliment, then let me offer you one. You are a kind man, and I am sorry you have been neglected so. That is true, yes? That you have been neglected.”

The man laughed softly. “Supplanted by canasta.”

Swan blinked in surprise. “Canasta? The card game? Gods, I thought no one younger than seventy and outside of Florida retirement homes played that.”

“My wife does. Three days a week. She’s a fiend for it. That was the reason for tonight’s fiasco. She had a terrible day at work, boss was an asshole, and she felt really low. I tried to comfort her, show her how special she was to me, but all she wanted was to run off to her canasta game.”

“She is a fool, to prefer a stupid game over such a handsome and willing man.”

“I didn’t get angry, didn’t say a harsh word. I said I understood, and I’d be there for her when she wanted me, to which she replied that, in fact, she didn’t want me at all anymore. She was tired of being married to a carpenter and a street-racing motorcyclist, and was ready to move up in the world. She dropped the papers in my lap, and then trot-trot-trotted out the door on the expensive Jimmy Choos I’d bought her for her birthday, and that was that.”

“And you came here?”

“Well... I hit a few of the street races tonight first. I don’t have cable, so I stopped off to see the game. Better than going home.”

Swan sipped his vodka, ignoring Deacon’s pointed look at his glass, and shook his head. “The only tragedy I see is not your wife’s, soon to ex-wife’s, but yours. You are patient and kind and deserve better.”

“As I said, there’s no tragedy on my part. Relief, mostly. I’ll be okay.”

“A man like you should not have to be alone as you have. You could have company with very little trouble.”

The hazel eyes were not as innocent as they’d first appeared. “Ah. You work here.”

“I dance here. I don’t whore here.”

“Freelancer, then.”

Swan saw no reason not to nod. “When the mood takes me, and the man is interesting.”

For a long second, the man looked more than inclined to refuse. It would be a gentle, kind refusal, and Swan wouldn’t take it to heart. But just as Swan gathered himself to finish his vodka and collect his bag for the walk home, the man sighed.

“Forgive me for asking, but are you male, or female?”

Swan smiled. “Gently asked. I’m male. I would’ve told you if you hadn’t asked. I don’t want to offer something you have no interest in.”

“And exactly what are you offering?”

“Fifty gets you a hand job. A hundred gets you a blowjob. Two hundred gets you anal sex. I bottom, never top. If you’re feeling extravagant, five hundred gets you the night and anything you want, with certain restrictions.”

“Restrictions?”

“I don’t do piss, shit, blood, humiliation, S&M, or B&D. Condoms are required, not negotiable. If you want me to look like a woman, I’m fine with that. I’m also fine with fantasy and filthy language.”

A faintly incredulous smile at Swan’s bald, unembarrassed recitation. “What about kissing, caressing, that sort of thing?”

Swan’s smile matched the man’s. “I’ve never been asked, but I’m not averse.”

He shook his head, and his incredulous smile faded into a rueful one. “Another tragedy.”

Swan shrugged.

“And there’s another one.”

He fell silent. Again, he contemplated the contents of his glass – mostly ice now – and shook his head. Again, Swan prepared to toss down his vodka, collect his bag, and escape before either Neeson or Roy spotted him.

“I won five hundred at the races tonight.”

Swan smiled widely. “Wonderful. So do we have a date?”

“You’d better find out what I want first. You can say no if it’s not to your taste.”

Swan nodded. “I appreciate the consideration. Tell me what you want.”

A deep sigh; another shake of the head. “I want to take care of you for the night.”

Swan managed not to let his jaw drop. He didn’t laugh, either. Not that he’d heard that before, but he’d had one or two johns who started off considerately enough, only to quickly devolve into the usual rutting and panting and drive for release. They were easier to manage that way – a man lost in the throes of his release wasn’t likely to keep him from quickly gathering his things and making a quick retreat once the deed was done. This one wouldn’t be any different, no matter how much of a naïf he seemed to be.

Swan nodded. “I can do that.”

The man sipped the last drops of his drink, and got up. Swan tossed the last half of his vodka down, collected his bag, and led the way out.

“We can walk to my place.”

“Do you have room for me to park my bike?” The man indicated a motorcycle parked at the side of the building. It wasn’t tricked out like some biker or a biker wanna-be thing, but was a lean racing machine that seemed well maintained even in the harsh glare of the security lights.

“Sure. You don’t want to leave it here for much longer, anyway.”

The man handed Swan one of the two helmets, put the other one on, and straddled the bike. He started it with practiced ease. As the engine roared, he shouted, “Hop on.”

Swan looped his bag onto his back, and pulled on the helmet. Once he’d slithered behind the man, he wrapped long arms around the man’s waist. The body under his hands was as lean as the racing bike, and his jacket smelled like well-oiled leather. It was an unaccustomed pleasure to put his mouth by the man’s ear. “Right out of the parking lot, left on MacKensie, two doors down.”

The man followed Swan’s directions. When they pulled up to a cheap apartment building, Swan directed the man around the back to the parking lot. Swan got off, watching as the man threaded a heavy chain through wheel spokes and then through the body of the bike, then around one of the cement parking barriers. This man loved his bike. He was also strong, pulling up the end of the parking barrier without much effort to loop his chain under it. He followed Swan into the building, up the dim stairwell to the third floor, and through the scuffed steel door.

As Swan locked the door, threaded the chain guard, and threw the two deadbolt locks, the man looked around at Swan’s tiny efficiency apartment. It looked like a Bollywood version of an oda; a large bed swathed and curtained in mostly blue Indian saris took up most of the space. An old Persian carpet, also in mostly blues, that Swan had rescued from a dumpster. In front of the sole window, a pair of French bistro chairs and a small table, painted blue, with a bohemian fringed shawl over the table. No TV, only a small sound system that his phone plugged into in case a john wanted ambience – he preferred silence. A tiny stove and equally tiny fridge bracketed a small sink in the corner; another sari curtained it off from the rest of the room, but he could hook it out of the way on the rare occasion that he cooked. The rightmost door screened a miniscule shower, sink, and toilet; the leftmost one hid a small closet.

“Give me your jacket,” Swan invited.

The man sat the two motorcycle helmets on the floor by the door, then slipped off his leather jacket. Nice meaty biceps, strong forearms, and trim waist. Swan took the heavy jacket and draped it over the back of the nearest bistro chair, then hung up his own jacket in the closet. He left his bag there, too; he’d clean up the mess from the day’s exertions tomorrow, once he was alone. Turning, he offered the man an expectant smile and an open palm.

“Um, I guess I pay first.”

Swan nodded. “That’s the way it works.”

The man dug into his front jeans pocket, pulled out a folded wad of bills, and handed it to Swan without counting it.

Swan counted. The collection of fifties, twenties, and tens added up to the five hundred the man had said it did. Swan stuffed the wad into the lockbox he’d bolted to the closet floor, then added the money he’d made tonight. He wasn’t about to risk theft, no matter now innocuous the man looked. He stood, turned back to the man, and offered a beguiling smile as he started to peel off his tee.

Swiftly, the man stepped forward and caught Swan’s hands. “Don’t. Please.”

Before Swan could register surprise, arms eased around his ribs and eased him against the trim torso he’d noticed. Ah. Shy, then... or not? Hands traced over his back in slow gentle caresses.

Swan wrapped his arms around the man’s back, and offered the same caresses. They stood in silence for some seconds, long enough for the touches to persuade an unfamiliar calm to fall over Swan. He breathed in, breathed out.

“You smell good,” he murmured.

“Night air, I guess.” A sigh, a squeeze of his shoulders. “You smell like beer. You likely want a shower.”

“If you’d like me to, I will,” Swan offered.

“Would you like to?”

“Oh, you want to shower with me?”

Another sigh. “I can see this is going to be harder than I thought.”

Swan eased away enough to regard the man dubiously. “What’s... going to be harder than you thought?”

“You’ve worked hard all night, yeah? Since you drank vodka at the bar, I assume someone tossed a beer your way, and it can’t be pleasant to let it linger. So go wash, take care of yourself. When was the last time you ate?”

“Breakfast,” Swan replied, too surprised to think of anything to say but the truth.

“Okay, go shower, and I’ll make you something to eat.”

“Why?” Swan blurted.

“Because that’s what I said I wanted, isn’t it? Just let me take care of you for a while.”

Swan considered quickly. His money was safely cached, so it’d be safe enough to leave the man alone –

“I’m not going to rob you,” the man shrugged, reading Swan’s expression. “Your cash is locked up, and I’m on my bike. I can’t exactly cart any of your stuff away, assuming I could get through your barricade before you heard me trying to puzzle out the locks.”

Swan decided to take the man at his word. “True. All right, I will shower off the beer.”

He grabbed a pair of grey leggings, underwear, and a lighter grey tee, and shut himself in the miniscule bathroom. Eventually his shy john would get down to business, so he washed thoroughly inside and out. Gone was the theatrical eye makeup and glitter. He plied the dryer over his hair quickly, not looking at his pale face. He’d worn his painted slut face for so long that now he thought he looked washed out without it.

Gods. How far he’d fallen.

He slashed a brush through his pale hair one last time, glad to look away and yank on his clothing. He stuffed his discards into the hamper and ventured out of the bathroom.

He smelled hot, buttery toast and soup.

His visitor stood tending a couple of pans at the tiny stove, but cast him a look. “I made you a grilled cheese sandwich and some chicken noodle soup. Hope that’s something you like.”

Swan had registered the man's comment about making him something to eat, but he’d ignored it as a sexual reference more than honest declaration. As if to hammer home the reality even harder, Swan’s bistro table had a pair of cups waiting beside a steaming teapot.

“Go ahead and sit down. Soup’s hot, and your sandwich is just about done.”

Bemused more than anything else, Swan sat at the chair by the door so he could watch such a surprising man. He moved with unconscious ease, no wasted motion, as he plated the sandwich with a deft twist of the spatula, then sliced it into two triangles. He nestled a bowl between the halves of the sandwich, added a spoon beside the bowl, then carried the plate to the table with the pot of soup. The plate went in front of Swan, then a careful stream of soup poured from pot into bowl. The pot went back on the stove, the frying pan and spatula went in the sink, and finally the man sat in the other bistro chair.

“Have at. You’re probably hungry.”

“Aren’t you eating?”

The man shrugged. “You didn’t have a lot, so I won’t take food out of your mouth. I will have some tea, though. Camomile. Good to calm things down after a long day.”

Swan belatedly took up half of the sandwich. The bread had been a few days old, but it was nicely buttered and browned, and crunchy rather than stale. The cheese, though generic American paste, had melted into a warm, gooey treat between the crusty bread.

“Mmm,” Swan couldn’t keep himself from humming. “This is good. I hadn’t thought I was hungry, but I was wrong.”

“Good,” the man smiled, pleased. “I’m glad you like it.”

Swan sipped a spoonful of soup. “This is good, too. Warm. I love the noodles.”

“Yeah, I noticed you got the kind with the extra noodles. Even better.”

“How can I sit and eat while you have nothing?” Swan protested. “Here, I have chocolate –”

“It’s okay. I ate earlier. Besides, this is about you, not me. So enjoy your soup and sandwich. I’m fine with tea.”

“Nothing? Not even a bite of this sandwich you made?”

The man gave him a reluctant look, but nodded in concession. “Okay, just a bite. I do like a good grilled cheese.”

When Swan held out the untouched half sandwich, the man leaned over the table to take a reasonable bite out of it. He sat back to chew consideringly, then gave Swan a grin. “Hmm. Needs mustard.”

“I have mustard –”

“Doesn’t matter. The sandwich is for you, not me.”

Swan looked at him with a frown. “You paid me five hundred dollars to make me a grilled cheese sandwich, noodle soup, and tea?”

The man’s smile was slight. “Are you complaining?”

“About the supper, not at all. But I’m curious about the reason behind it.”

“Enjoy your supper first. Then I’ll explain.”

Swan’s concession was a shrug, and let the man pour them cups of tea while he ate his meal. The man was content to sip his hot drink, in no hurry for Swan to finish, but he did pay attention to any sign that Swan enjoyed his food. He was attentive enough that when Swan had almost finished his soup, he pointed back to the stove.

“There’s another bowlful still warm if you want it.”

The novelty of being waited on was too much to resist. At Swan’s nod, the man fetched the pan and poured the rest of the soup into his bowl. While Swan spooned up his soup, the man washed the soup pan, the sandwich pan, the spatula, the serving spoon. He even washed Swan’s bowl, spoon, and plate when he’d finished his food. A quick wipe with a dishtowel, and everything was back where it had been before Swan had showered. When the man let the sari loose from its hook on the wall to veil the kitchen again, only the lingering aroma of buttered toast and a steaming teapot revealed that anything had been touched.

How fascinating had it been to watch this puzzling man take such pains to clean up after himself for a meal he hadn’t eaten? He should say something, but thanks didn't seem right. The only thanks he offered anyone was to johns once they were done with him and ready to take their leave. It was sentiment heavy with irony and relief, not appreciation.

“Come, sit with me,” Swan invited. He got up, dimmed all the lights but for the one over the headboard, and gestured to the edge of the bed. He patted the mattress, so the man got up from the bistro chair to stand beside him. A soft touch on his back strayed over his shoulders, and a kiss brushed on the nape of his neck, drawing his skin into gooseflesh. Ah, this he understood. He let the soft lips linger on his skin for a few seconds, before turning to nuzzle his lips in the crease between neck and shoulder. The man leaned into the caress, his breath catching just the slightest bit. Yes, yes, this would be easy, so easy, just a soft touch here and there, and off to nirvana. He edged up his tee to pull it off –

Fingers eased his hands away from the hem of his shirt, and drew them up to kiss and massage. The kisses that traced up his neck across his jaw, and up to his lips were gentle caresses, like willow leaves drifting on the wind to brush against his cheek. Even when those caresses came to his mouth, they were light, unhurried, and patient. Fingers massaged his shoulders, his deltoids, his triceps, urging ease.

“I don’t understand,” Swan protested. “Do you want me or not?”

“You don’t have to entertain me, suck up to me, stroke my ego or my cock. If something I offer you feels good, then take it. If I haven’t offered something you want, then tell me, and I’ll give it to you. Let me give you what you need for a little while.”

“No one asks a whore what he wants,” Swan snorted.

“Whether you’re a whore or not doesn’t play into our situation.”

“I sell, you buy... that is exactly our situation.”

“Gods, you’re a hard case.”

“A hard case of what?”

Another long sigh, another slow caress over his back. “All right, we’ll use your terms. I told you what I wanted to buy, and you accepted. So either give me what I want, or give me my money back.”

“What in hell do you want? You make me a sandwich, soup, yet you take nothing –”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. No, don’t say anything – just listen. I paid you to let me give you something. Not things, not material stuff. Comfort. Love. Compassion. Consideration. A little peace and stillness. For a long time, every time I’ve offered those things, I’ve been refused. It’s like being cut off at the knees. So if I have to pay you to take what I offer, so be it.”

“So you want to act like my mother?”

“Sounds like you didn’t have much of one.”

He hadn’t.

He bit his lip. “I don’t do what I do because I need anything other than money to live.”

The slow caresses began again. “You’re used to being in control, used to people taking without giving anything in return. This isn’t what you’re used to. It’s confusing.”

Swan suppressed a shudder. Confusing didn’t begin to cover what he felt.

“Never mind. Tell me whether this feels good or not.”

The slow, easy touches felt beyond good, but he didn’t say that. “It’s okay.”

A chuckle. “I can live with that.”

It was the man who led Swan to sit on the edge of the bed. It was the man who knelt behind him to massage his shoulders, unkinking the tension there. It was the man who brushed a kiss on Swan’s nape, who breathed warmth against his skin to tense it into gooseflesh.

It was Swan who closed his eyes to concentrate on those gentle, unhurried touches, and hummed in simple relief as his body responded to the peaceful caresses.

“Thank you, beautiful man,” whispered in his ear, as soft lips brushed a kiss on his earlobe.

“Why are you are so good to me?” Swan whispered back, as arms enveloped him into a tender embrace.

“I told you. I miss caring about someone. Is that so hard to understand? Now shh; no more questions. I can’t explain myself any better than I’ve already tried. So just feel. Maybe that’ll explain better than I have.”

The kiss started as slowly as the touches over his skin had, but grew more passionate and eager as the seconds passed. When was the last time anyone had lavished such care and attention on him? Never. The men whom Swan brought here rarely offered even a perfunctory caress, considering their presence all the invitation they needed to use his body however they desired. When was the last time anyone sought out his sensitive places where a kiss or a touch brought him a jolt of arousal as well as a yearning for more? Did he strip off the man’s tee, or did the man do it as if he made an offering of himself? Such a hunky body, such a joy to touch, and so unstinting, lavishing every delight on Swan that he could have imagined.

When Swan finally shed his own shirt, caresses flowed without end over his torso, his throat, his ribs, his flanks, then back up to his mouth and jaw as his partner eased him flat against the mattress. The hands that lingered over his skin sent tingles shivering all over his body, and the tongue that flicked over his nipple sent him spasming in desire. Quickly, a warm mouth settled at one nipple, supple fingers at the other, shooting jolts of pleasure down to his groins. Gods, gods, was the impossible about to happen – did his cock actually stir? When was the last time he’d had anything close to an erection? He didn’t fight it, but let the body above his do what it would. He shut his eyes, biting his lips to keep himself from moaning.

“It’s okay,” a voice whispered in his ears. A hand traced down his abdomen to cup, then rub, the bulge swelling underneath his leggings. “Let it happen. Just let it happen.”

“Oh gods,” Swan pleaded. “It’s so good, so good...”

“I’m glad, love. I want it to be good for you. Just let it happen.”

The hand atop his leggings slipped underneath, and fingers wrapped around his cock to stroke him from tip to root, setting up a slow but irresistible rhythm. In between the touches on his nipples and his cock, Swan dragged his leggings down to give his partner free access to whatever he wanted. But the man confined himself to nipples and cock, though those touches alone were devastating. Gods, his cock swelled until it was painfully hard and aching, and every flick of a finger or tongue over his nipples was electric. He pumped his hips in time, urging a faster pace. At once, the man sped up his ministrations, humming at the gyrations wracking Swan’s body. At exactly the right moment, the pace slowed just a hair, so that he completely savored the exquisite and inexorable rise of sensations before he erupted into climax. The rush of pleasure that flooded him with such force was overwhelming, irresistible, all-consuming.

“Oh, gods and angels, you have me – ooooooooh g-gods!”

The hand on his cock was gentle as it milked every spasm to its perfect end. The lips that had tended his nipple now nuzzled soft words in his ears. It didn’t matter what the words were; it was the tone that brought a lump to Swan’s throat, for it was gentle, loving, kind.

For a second or two, it was the only thing that existed in the world.

A warm washcloth wiped his abdomen clean, then a dry towel. Careful hands eased up his leggings. A warm chest settled at his back, and a soft blanket went over them both. A final kiss or two brushed against his hair, his nape, his shoulder, and an arm went around his ribs to anchor him. The light puff of breath that warmed the crook of his neck was warm, and it lulled him to sleep in seconds.

When he woke, pale, tentative daylight peeked through the sari shading the window. His back was still warm, mute evidence of the body that had lain beside him, but the body itself was no longer there. He sat up in time to see the man who’d spent the night come out of the tiny bathroom. His eyes warmed when they met Swan’s, and he sat on the bed to smooth Swan’s hair out of his face and back over his shoulder.

“Did you sleep well, beautiful man?” he murmured softly, as if not wanting to wake the day just yet.

Had he? Gods, he hadn’t stirred all night. No one and nothing had disturbed him for the first time in many nights. His tentative nod drew a grateful smile from his companion.

“I’m glad. So glad. I thank you for every moment I spent with you.”

The man offered one more caress before he went to the door to pull on his boots, slip on his jacket, take up the two motorcycle helmets.

In seconds, he would be down the stairs and gone.

In seconds, Swan would no longer be the man on whom a stranger had lavished so much care and attention. He'd be the whore who roosted on a dance pole in the middle of a beer-soaked stage in a dive called the Birds of Paradise. But because a man with warm hazel eyes had beguiled him, the next time he danced, he wouldn’t be able to blot out the hands that groped rather than caressed, the voices that screamed and cursed rather than whispered, the eyes that glowed with greed rather than compassion.

He’d be naked, stripped bare, defenseless as he’d never been before.

As the man tried to puzzle his way through the locks, Swan threw off the blanket and stalked to the door.

“Was this a joke? Did someone put you up to this?”

The man’s expression was startled, then sad. “No, it wasn’t a joke, in no way was any of it a joke. I meant every word I said to you.”

Swan went to his closet, found the hidden key, and took the man’s money out of his lockbox. He stuffed it in the man’s jeans pocket where it had been last night. “I won’t take this.”

“But you gave me exactly what I asked for. It’s yours.”

“I didn’t give you anything. You took what you wanted, because you’re a selfish bastard.”

The man’s eyes widened in shock. “Selfish?”

“Worse than selfish. You’re cruel. The other men I bring here just want to fuck my body. You want to rape my thoughts. You make me supper, caress me, murmur soft words to me, get me off, then lull me to sleep like you truly care about me, when what you really want is to make yourself feel better. My life is shit enough without you rubbing my nose in everything I cannot have. Perhaps you’re even so deluded that you think I will care about you and pine for you to come back when you have no intention to do so. Or perhaps you are a do-gooder, who offers a whore one part lust, and equal part pity.”

Swan shoved the man aside to unlock the door. He jerked it open, and pointed out. “Whichever it is, I don’t care. Just take your fucking money and get out.”

The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed as his throat spasmed, and the light in his hazel eyes dimmed. But he didn’t shout, curse, lash out, do any of the things that any normal man would have done. He swallowed, offered Swan a nod.

“Thank you, anyway.”

He stepped through the doorway, and paced down the stairs without a look backwards.

“You can’t make me care, you fucking bastard!” Swan shouted down the stairwell.

There was no reply.

Swan slammed the door on the silence, slammed the deadbolts and chain guards into place, slammed his fists against the steel.

When his hands hurt too much to keep pounding, he sank to the floor and laid his cheek against the cold steel.

He shut his eyes, and cried.

 

# # #


End file.
